The Other Wise Man
by Thrice Seven Once Eleven
Summary: Crossover with the short story of the same name.  It's the wee hours of Christmas Day, and Crowley is up and roaming the city, remembering a certain human who is not easily forgotten.  He does not understand the intricacies of human nature.


Companion piece to _What Men Live By_. This one centers around Crowley rather than Aziraphale, since the angel already had his spotlight. I really enjoyed writing it. I hope you will enjoy reading it!

The title is lovingly stolen from Henry Van Dyke, author of the short story _The Other Wise Man_, which I demand you google and read. It is fairly short, and will not take up much of your time. That being said, you definitely don't need to be familiar with it in order to understand the fic.

Crowley and Aziraphale belong to Pratchett and Gaiman, and Artaban belongs to Van Dyke.

* * *

**The Other Wise Man**

Crowley had mixed feelings about Christmas.

On one hand, the multitudes of family gatherings were his playgrounds – seeds of dissent germinated, the discord between certain members resonated, and the most Crowley had to do was give a little nudge and then sit back and watch the fireworks.

And, of course, greed and envy and avarice and wrath were more concentrated around the end of December. Children were invariably disappointed. Parents were exhausted and snappish. Shop owners were gleeful. It was almost appallingly easy for Crowley to tempt and wile.

On the other hand…

On the other hand, Christmas was a sharp reminder of how very little the demon understood about the way the really important things seemed to work.

It was December the twenty-fifth, two o'clock in the morning, and Crowley was wide awake and prowling the silent outskirts of the city. He had left hours earlier under the pretense that the easiest targets were out the latest. He wasn't sure if it was true or not, but it made sense and he really didn't much care one way or the other.

The streets were empty of people, full of snow. Hands deep in his pockets and his nose buried in the scarf his elderly neighbor had left outside his door some years prior, Crowley paused under a street lamp and glanced up at the thick white flakes falling through the light before moving on.

A forlorn-looking bundle wedged in a doorway caught his eye as he passed. He didn't recognize the girl's face, but he knew very well what the snow piled deep on her tatty blanket meant. She was asleep, shivering, and he reached down and brushed the snow away from her face with the tips of his gloved fingers before shoving his hands back into his coat.

He stared at her, lost in thought. There was nothing keeping her from knocking at the door. The shop beyond was a safe enough haven, so long as she didn't try to actually buy anything.

Crowley left her where she lay. Someone would find her in the morning. Maybe she would even survive. It wasn't his lookout.

He turned down a side street, walking away from Soho.

_He would have helped her_, thought Crowley, and half-smiled. After nearly two thousand years, the memory of one of his greater failures no longer bothered him. _After all, he helped the dying Hebrew, and you know what kind of hurry he was in._

_He_ was Artaban of Ectbatana, a Magian. Only three Magi had visited the Infant in his manger, but there should have been four. Artaban, the Other Wise Man, had been sidetracked. Distracted.

Crowley had watched, delighted, as Artaban arrived in Bethlehem too late, the King and his family already fled before Herod's soldiers could catch and kill them.

He had watched as Artaban bribed one of Herod's captains with a ruby meant for the King – oh, the irony was delicious – in exchange for another child's safety.

Now, standing in the grey night, the winter air cool against his skin, Crowley wondered. Artaban had been bringing three jewels to the Infant, but his mercy to the dying Hebrew had caused him to miss his caravan and he had been forced to use the sapphire to buy camels and provisions in order to make his way alone. The ruby, Artaban had offered to Herod's captain so that the house where Artaban had found shelter would be left in peace.

Unseen, Crowley had whispered to the captain to take it, take it, it is yours by _right_, put out your hand and take it, _damn yourself_ – and sure enough, the man's greed had won over.

The ruby had been lamb's blood on the lintel. The threat had passed over the mother and child huddled in the shadows behind the Magian. The baby had been spared, and his mother had uttered a prayer and blessing over Artaban.

Crowley had been amused at that. Artaban, pious and righteous though he claimed to be, had both lied and given up the second of his three gifts as a bribe. _Why doesn't he just give up now?_ Crowley had wondered. _He could take the third jewel, the pearl, for himself. Cut his losses_.

Fascinated, he had followed the Magian for many years. He had gone away at times to attend to other matters in other parts of the world, of course, but he always found himself thinking of Artaban, wondering where he was and what he was up to. He found the man, when he wanted to, always among the poor and the ill and the miserable, healing and comforting them.

"All the lonely people," Crowley murmured, peering through a darkened window. Only one pane of glass was still whole, the others broken or missing. The room beyond was almost painfully bare, but Crowley could just make out the four bodies huddled together for warmth in a far corner.

Artaban had become a thorn in Crowley's side. It was difficult to bring doubt to those who had just met with a powerful and wealthy man who so genuinely seemed to _care_. Artaban visited prisons and slave-ships, cities full of plague and misery, towns stricken by famine. And when he left, the sick and hungry sat a little straighter, and their eyes shone a little brighter.

Crowley had wondered several times whether Artaban was more than he seemed. He had gone to the other Magi, watched them, and none of them were half as plagued by doubt and worry as Artaban. None of them were half as full of grace, and _they _had met the King.

But Crowley would have known if the Other Wise Man had been anything but than human. He began to resent Artaban, who thwarted him without even seeming to notice. Artaban had started out as a harmless novelty, to Crowley's mind, a fascination, but he was rapidly becoming an enemy.

Three and thirty years from the time Artaban's quest had begun, in Jerusalem, Crowley saw his opportunity and took it.

By that point, Artaban was an old man. He had just learned of the King's impending execution, and Crowley read relief in the line of the man's shoulders, the way his eyes brightened with the same hope he had spread among the lonely people of the world.

Crowley could almost hear Artaban's thoughts: finally, he had arrived in time – finally, he was not too late! He would use the pearl, last of his gifts and most beautiful, to ransom the King, and save him from death. It would work. It _had_ to work.

But Crowley had watched him for many long and bitter years, and Crowley knew what music moved him.

In frozen London, Crowley wandered aimlessly, following the path that his feet chose for him. The snow lay heavy over the world, and the city was unusually quiet. This was Christmas Eve, and the people were all either sleeping or up late and visiting with family and friends.

Almost all. In a doorway, under a blanket of snow and threadbare fleece, a human stopped shivering. And a demon walked the streets alone, remembering.

The events had played out like clockwork, as though it had all been planned. Crowley had looked at Artaban, looked behind him, and grinned. _Dance, human_.

The girl had caught at Artaban's robe, begged him for salvation. She was going to be sold into slavery in order to pay off her father's debts. And Artaban gave her the pearl to buy her freedom, and in so doing abandoned the King to torture and death, as Crowley had known he would.

But Artaban had done the best he could. He had done what he believed was right, and that was all that could be asked of him.

Crowley could still remember the voice, coming over a great distance. He could still hear it ringing through his mind as though no time had passed.

"_Verily I say unto thee, inasmuch as thou hast done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, thou hast done it unto me."_

Crowley stopped walking. He had come in a circle. He looked down again at the poor creature huddled alone in a doorway. She was not shivering anymore, but a grey puff, barely visible, curled up from the blue-tinged lips. Not dead. Yet.

Crowley turned to leave.

And then, although no hand had caught at his coat, although everything was still and silent and muffled by snow, the demon whirled and pounded twice on the solid wooden door with both fists. A brief tattoo. A heartbeat, for the memory of a man who had learned, and in learning, had taught.

Then he stalked away down the silent street, disappearing into the falling snow.

* * *

Aziraphale jumped and looked at the clock, wondered who on Earth would be visiting at this hour. Maybe Crowley – but no, this was Christmas Eve, and Crowley was almost certainly asleep.

He hurried to the door and opened it, looking out into the snow, up and down the grey road. For a moment, he thought he saw a dark figure walking quickly away from his shop, but then he blinked and the figure vanished. Only a shadow.

He shook his head and glanced down as he moved to close the door.

His eyes went wide.


End file.
